


prima donna

by varsiity



Series: backstories [5]
Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i'm so upset, ok listen the disguiser is like the one (1) oc of mine that im actually proud of, uhh anything else important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varsiity/pseuds/varsiity
Summary: She switches out the masks. She switches out the personalities. She plays the parts seamlessly, slipping into each disguise like a well-worn jacket, and for a day at a time, she dreams of being someone else.





	prima donna

**Author's Note:**

> ok here's a quick lil Note because i don't remember which names i specified:
> 
> rialta = forger  
> carmine = framer
> 
> i think those are all the names i gave out. the disguiser's name is never specified.  
> anyways, i hope you enjoy!

She’s had a lot of faces over the years.

Her own is plain, and it is the most unfamiliar to her among her collection of masks. It stares back at her from the mirror when she’s taken off the makeup and busied herself with preparing to slip into bed with someone who doesn’t care. Slender dark eyes, a flat nose - pale and small under a shock of the dark brown hair she keeps short. A faded burn scar under her chin. She looks so much like her mother, is what they used to say back in Reading, in the mocking way school bullies had perfected. She’s never met her mother. If what they said is true, maybe she doesn’t want to.

She has so many faces, ones that she keeps tucked away in a chest at the foot of the bed she shares with the Forger. She never stays the full night in that bed, not anymore. It’s better to slip on a mask and vanish before the sun comes up. Taking the place of someone else is so much easier.

She has so many faces. Her least favorite one is the most permanent of all.

The Mafia doesn’t know her, and neither does the Town. None of them do. They know the silent Vietnamese girl with the empty eyes, or the Disguiser who never speaks during the Mafia meetings. The Forger knows her least of all, after night after night with bodies pressed together and the smell of cheap liquor on Rialta’s breath. Days change. Masks change. The people behind them don’t.

She doesn’t take it personally. 

She is the best actress this town has ever seen, and the best one they ever will see - starring in a showstopper and playing every role herself. Dodging behind the curtain every night to change out the costumes and the voices and the scripts, performing in front of an empty theater. Her only audience is herself, and she must make sure her audience doesn’t get bored.

She knows these people better than they know themselves, because she can see the flaws they deny knowledge of. There’s nothing her eyes don’t miss - the way the Consort flinches away from anyone’s touch, the dangerous glint in the Executioner’s eyes. The Mayor’s nightly trips to the town bar and the Jester’s silent desperation. She sees all, but she can’t claim to understand, not the way the Framer is so devoted to someone who won’t tell him the truth nor the reason the Godfather leaves bruises and burns dotting the Mafioso’s back. And she wishes she could tell them the truth. All of them, the full truth, not Salem’s rotting, twisted version of it - but it isn’t her job.

Her job is to switch out the masks.

Her life is as plain as her bare face, full of the same things and the same people and the same fucked up relationships as ever. Her career is an exercise in enjoyable monotony. She brings happiness to some, misery to others. She has never fallen in love, other than the few months when the Forger was still reliably sober. She isn’t a virgin, but the first time (and the subsequent ones) were nothing to write to her nonexistent home about. Her name is as forgettable as her face, and it’s unfamiliar to her own ears, after years of wearing other ones. She has not killed, she has not saved lives. She has not felt alive. Her heart beats. She assumes she can’t yet be dead.

She has worn the masks of strangers, but she has also worn those of friends, even if only accidentally. She has spoken in the voice of the Consort before, and let it reach the Framer’s ears. Nothing revealing, because balance must be kept. Nothing too important. She does not drop hints about the rape. 

She does not mention things like that. 

She does not warn Carmine of who the Consort plans to visit, whenever the Consort finds he can next go out - when he stops feeling the Mafioso’s unwanted touch on his skin, whenever that may be. She does not explain how the Consort will fuck the Serial Killer, welcome a knife into his rib cage, and hope to finally find peace in the arms of emptiness.

She fills the space in the Framer’s bed for one night, and feels no guilt for the things she leaves unsaid. Their lives are not hers to interfere with.

She has been the Consigliere, too, in a ginger wig and cheeks spotted with fake freckles. She has worn a Doctor’s coat and a mask with wrinkles in the forehead and around the eyes. She has stolen the Investigator’s short blonde hair, the Escort’s red silk dress, the Jester’s wide, dark eyes - she has made them her own and played their parts better than they ever could themselves. Wax, makeup, and costumes are all it takes to change identities. There is a stranger in the mirror when the contacts come off and the wig is put away. There is a stranger living in her head, once she’s finished with the Jailor’s brusque personality and the Vampire’s sharp edges. But she knows everyone else in town like a childhood friend. 

It’s inconvenient when they die. But at the end of the day, it’s just another mask to scrap and a favorite character to retire after a long and successful film career. She is distanced - has always been distanced, will always be distanced, as long as she wants to keep performing. The poor souls who get invested are the ones who, in the end, get involved. She pities them.

Love is overrated. Rialta taught her that. Alcohol is overrated. Rialta taught her that, as well. Sex and drugs never numb it, and so the Disguiser numbs herself, dealing with the problems of another person instead of her own. Wake up before Rialta, go to sleep after Rialta. She can’t remember the last time they talked. She can’t remember the last time she felt something for the Forger. She can’t remember most things, other than the way the Jester’s hopelessness chokes her every time she puts on his mask, and the vicious recklessness of the Arsonist’s grin, and the Mafioso’s bitter, searing hot spite (and the way the Consort watches him, like a cornered animal). They are not her friends. They are co-workers, or opponents, or, in one case, an ex-lover. She is clinically cold.

Her talent is rare, but she doesn’t delusion herself into thinking it’s unique. She is not suspicious, but she doesn’t delusion herself into thinking that’ll save her from a rope around her throat eventually. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe ten years in the future. Maybe she’ll put a bullet through her own head before anyone else gets the chance to.

That wouldn’t surprise her, not at this point. Nothing does.

She has been the Hypnotist and Potion Master and Plaguebearer, the Werewolf and Arsonist and Jester, the Escort and Medium and Necromancer. She has been many people, worn more masks than she can count. Sometimes, she speaks in the Escort’s voice without meaning to, all calm confidence and sharply beautiful. Sometimes, she is the Blackmailer instead, cautious and more timid than not. Occasionally, a murderer will make an appearance, and the Mafioso and Godfather are the only ones among them that she cannot stomach. She has played many parts and acted out many scripts. She has peeled the wax off her face and stared at the stranger in the mirror. She can’t remember the last time she has been herself.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you enjoyed it, please leave kudos and/or a comment, it makes my day to know someone enjoyed my work :) 
> 
> i'm thinking of doing an october-themed work soon, where i'd write one part a day and end up with 31 in total (maybe individual oneshots with the inktober themes, maybe all parts of one central story), and that would probably be town of salem centered - would any of you be interested in reading something like that? do you have a suggestion for a different format? do you just want me to get out of this fandom? lmk in the comments ;D 
> 
> again, thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this!


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